The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (33 page)

“I hope not, madame.” His face was a mask of concern. “If I see one of them, I’ll shoot it myself. I keep my shotgun ready at my front door.”

Isabelle, however, was not reassured by that. “Do you remember how happy Leon was to see that we still kept sheep? Maybe that’s why I’ve held on to the animals.”

Claude nodded.

“Leon would certainly not like it if I got rid of them.” But Leon was dead, and she was responsible for the living. She pulled herself together. “We’ll go over to the peacock pen and the chicken stall in a minute and check that everything is in order. If necessary, we’ll double the wire netting to keep the wolves out. As for the sheep . . . it’s my fault that this happened. I should have looked for a buyer for them long ago. Could you take care of that?”

Two days later, a man came for the sheep. Isabelle watched silently as the new owner, a shepherd from the nearby village of Romery, drove the animals down the narrow street with the aid of his two dogs. She should have taken this step much earlier. The few francs that the sale of the wool brought in would not have made her much wealthier, not when she factored in the cost of feed and shelter for the sheep. With the shepherd, her sheep were in competent, knowledgeable hands—he had enough hay for the winter and a large, safe stall where they could get through the cold months safely. So she had done the right thing.

But it still hurt to see the small flock trotting away. Was it just the start of the sell-off? What part of the Feininger estate would she have to part with next? One of the vineyards? The horses?

Abruptly, she turned away from the street. What nonsense! The cold and her fat belly must have been putting such stupid thoughts in her head.
Enough of this for today
, she commanded herself. There was still so much to be done before the child came.

Chapter Thirty-Six

On December 23, the postman knocked at Isabelle’s door and unloaded a crate of champagne from his handcart. Isabelle smiled when she recognized Raymond’s elegant handwriting on the card that came with the champagne, on which he had renewed his invitation for the following day. If her situation had been any different, she might well have accepted.

“And two parcels from Berlin, too,” said the postman.

Isabelle was thrilled to receive them.

Inside again, she made herself comfortable in the warm living room. With great care, as if she were handling the finest lace instead of coarse packing paper, she unwrapped Josephine’s parcel. Inside, she found an elegant Christmas card decorated with glitter and two smaller packages on which was written
Open Only on Christmas Eve
. No doubt there was something inside for her baby to wear, Isabelle suspected, or perhaps even a shawl for her?

In Clara’s parcel, too, she discovered a brightly wrapped bundle and a tin box of homemade cookies; Isabelle could already smell the cinnamon through the packaging. Ignoring the sweet allure of the cookies for the moment, Isabelle reached for the far more tempting letter that Clara had sent.

Berlin, December 13, 1898

My dearest Isabelle,

I hope this letter finds you well and happy. So close to giving birth, life for a mother-to-be becomes difficult. I well remember waddling through our apartment like a duck. Everything hurt: my swollen ankles, my back, my breasts . . . Gerhard always says that rest is a cure-all for every womanly ailment, but you and I both know that the daily housework won’t do itself. This means you have to stay strong until the day of birth.

With a smile, Isabelle scratched her stomach, the skin of which was stretched uncomfortably—much longer, and she’d explode! Apart from Ghislaine, she had no other female friends her own age in Hautvillers, so it felt even better to read Clara’s understanding words. She riffled quickly through the thin letter paper, which smelled lightly of lavender, to read of Clara’s plans for her New Year’s visit, about which Isabelle was over the moon.

Unfortunately, I also have to give you some bad news. Gerhard received an invitation for the New Year’s Eve ball of a countess, to take place on their country estate out near Potsdam. She is one of his patients, and he apparently helped her out of an awkward situation. She has promised to introduce him to other women at the ball—all potential patients for him. Becoming the high-society doctor, that’s what my husband is striving for. It is inconceivable to him that I wouldn’t accompany him on such an important occasion, which I’m sure you can understand, can’t you?

Dear Isabelle, it gets worse. The way things look, I will have to postpone my visit to you until the start of February. There are several appointments here in Berlin, in January, that simply can’t be put off, unless I want to get into serious trouble with my husband. It breaks my heart, believe me, to have to write these words.

Your true friend, Clara

Isabelle let the letter drop. No shared laughter. No heart-to-heart talks. No “Frau Doctor” to hold her hand when the time came. Through the last few weeks, she had held firmly to the thought that she would not be alone when she went into labor. Now she wouldn’t see her dear friend, and she would have to come up with something else. Perhaps she could start to stay with Micheline and Marie shortly before the baby was due? Or maybe even move into the hospital in Épernay. The falling snow, heavier now, outside her window caught her eye. But she did not like the thought of holing up in the very same women’s ward where Ghislaine had lost her child. And then there were her own memories of Leon in the hospital. No, she did not want to bring her child into the world in that atmosphere. She would ask the local midwife to spend the night at her house, though doing so was certainly unconventional.

After a long moment pondering the issue, she shook her head and stood up. She had things to do for the next day, baking and cooking for Christmas. Ghislaine had invited her, Micheline, and Marie for dinner, as well as Claude Bertrand and his dog. Each of the women had promised to contribute something to the meal to take some of the load off Ghislaine, who was keeping her restaurant open until late in the afternoon. Isabelle was planning a spicy pie with steamed herbs and ham, one of Clara’s recipes; it had already gone down very well indeed with her pickers. Micheline and Marie were going to roast a duck—no doubt the Christmas table would be groaning under the weight of all the delicious food.

For the first time since reading Clara’s letter, a trace of a smile reappeared on Isabelle’s face. She was not going to be alone on Christmas Eve, and that counted for a lot. And maybe she’d see Daniel again. Ghislaine had not expressly mentioned that her brother would be there, but it was Christmas, after all.

Another thought entered her mind, and it made her frown. Where would Gustave Grosse spend the big day?

Since the incident with the exploding bottles, he had done everything he could not to cross her path. But now she felt obligated to find out what his plans for the holiday were. She pulled on her heavy coat and set off for the wine cellar.

She found Gustave on the uppermost level of the cellar. On a square wooden table in front of him stood a number of large glass bottles filled with liquids in a range of colors, from clear to pale yellow. They looked like champagnes at different stages of maturity. On the floor beside the table were many more of the bulbous bottles, some of which were filled with even more luridly colored liquids.

“What are you doing?” asked Isabelle, without a word of greeting.

Grosse was pouring champagne out of one of the bottles into a bowl; he glanced up momentarily. “I’m just starting with the first
assemblage
.”

Isabelle thought she had not heard him right. “Didn’t I tell you we were only going to start with that in mid-January?” she said. “And what is all that?” She fluttered her hand toward the ominous bottles. Without waiting for him to reply, she moved closer and read the label on one of them:
jus de poire
. On the next one:
jus de pommes
.

“Pear juice, apple juice, beetroot juice, and cognac?” She let out a shrill laugh. “What business do any of these have in blending
champagne
? And what were you planning to do with all that sugar?” She pointed to a large linen sack with
sucre
printed on it.

“A little sweetness, a little extra flavor and color, have never hurt anyone, madame. You want your turn-of-the-century champagne to be something special, don’t you?” said Grosse, with an aggressive undertone. “Now don’t go looking all horrified! This is common practice. Take my word for it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get my hands on any port wine at short notice. Port gives champagne a very full-bodied bouquet.”

A loud ringing started in Isabelle’s ears, so loud that she thought she might faint on the spot with the dizziness it caused. Adulterated champagne! In her cellars! That was the final straw.

Her right arm shot out like an arrow toward the exit.

“Get out!”

“Oh, don’t go getting upset. I’ve just begun; I can’t just put it all down and—”

“Get out!” she screamed, and took a threatening step in his direction. She was on the verge of picking up an empty bottle and bashing it over the man’s head. “You’re fired. Pack your things and go. I never want to see you again!”

The moment Gustave Grosse was out of sight, Isabelle felt a sharp stabbing pain inside her, and she doubled over, folding like a penknife. Dazed, she lowered herself onto one of the stools beside the square table.
Damn it all, I shouldn’t get so worked up!
she thought. She forced herself to breathe more slowly and evenly. The wooden barrels lining the walls left and right caught her eye. Inside them were stored the individual champagnes waiting to be blended into her turn-of-the-century champagne.
Maybe for the
next
turn of the century
, Isabelle thought bitterly.

On Christmas Eve, Isabelle set off with Micheline, Marie, and Claude for Christmas Mass. Ghislaine, who was still busy in her restaurant, was going to meet them at the church. Light flakes of snow sprinkled down and settled in Isabelle’s hair.

“A white Christmas . . . in Germany, that was always something special, like a gift,” she said. She looked down at the thin sheet of snow underfoot; every step they took left fresh prints. There was something so full of promise about the fresh snow that it brought a small smile to Isabelle’s face.

“A white Christmas is something special for us, too,” said Micheline.

Marie and Claude murmured in assent. Isabelle’s elderly neighbor pointed to the houses they were walking past. “On Christmas Eve, we like to put candles in the windows. How beautifully they shine through the drizzling snow.”

Isabelle nodded, moved.

The evening was a merry affair. Maybe it was the sociable atmosphere, or maybe the gallows humor of it. Whatever it was, Isabelle’s description of giving Grosse his marching orders was so dramatic that all the guests were practically in hysterics.

“Well done, dear,” said Micheline through tears of laughter, and patted Isabelle’s arm.

“But what now? I wanted to make a champagne suitable for the end of the century, and now I don’t even have a cellar master.” She looked around at her friends helplessly.

“Better none at all than one like that,” was the unanimous opinion, as was the consensus that Christmas Eve was not a night for dwelling on one’s problems.

“There’s a solution for everything,” said Micheline laconically.

Isabelle would have loved to believe that were true.

After dinner, Claude and Micheline began to sing Christmas songs, and Marie and Ghislaine joined them. When Claude’s dog began to howl along, the singing dissolved into laughter.

Isabelle knew neither the lyrics nor the melodies they were singing, but she hummed along, struggling all the while against a deep disappointment. She had been looking forward so much to seeing Daniel.

When he did not appear for dinner, Ghislaine remarked, “No doubt he’s found some new lover in Épernay and is celebrating the evening with her.”

That only made Isabelle gloomier.

The walk to the church and back had exhausted her, and although she had only eaten a little, the hearty food was sitting heavily in her stomach. She longed for her bed, to be able to stretch out, lay her hands on her taut belly, sleep, and get the last days of her pregnancy behind her as well as she could. The midwife had come down with whooping cough, which ruled her out for the birth, so Isabelle had decided after all to go into the hospital in Épernay and wait for the birth there.
If only it were already behind me
, Isabelle thought—not for the first time—as she kneaded her fingers into her aching back.

By eleven, she’d had enough. Yawning, she stood up and said good night. The others were in such a happy mood that they only nodded briefly in response.

The hot water bottle was waiting for her beneath Jacques’s old eiderdown. A candle was burning on the night table, and beside it lay a French copy of
Madame Bovary
, which Isabelle had read years earlier in German.
A few more pages before I fall asleep
, she thought, as she looked out the window: outside, the gentle sprinkle of Christmas snow had transformed into a considerable winter storm, and the snow was falling so heavily that she could no longer see the houses across the street. That was probably the reason Daniel had stayed in Épernay.

Isabelle had just pulled on her nightgown when she felt something warm and wet between her legs. She looked down in shock at the huge pool spreading around her feet.
No! Please, not yet,
she thought
.
The child wasn’t due for another twelve days!

She had not even finished the thought when a cramping pain shot through her. Whimpering, she gripped the foot of the bed to hold herself upright. After a few deep breaths, the pain receded, but it came back again the next moment, red as fire and with razor teeth, tearing at her insides and robbing her of air. Helplessly, Isabelle looked around the room. If she managed to make it to the window, she could open it and scream for help. She knew for certain that she wouldn’t make it back to Ghislaine’s.

Never would Daniel have thought that it would take him so long to get from Épernay to Hautvillers. Everything had started out so well: a vintner visiting relatives in Épernay had offered him a ride back to Hautvillers, and Daniel had been happy to accept. But not long after setting off, the one-horse chaise bumped heavily over a stone in the road. The next moment, it began to wobble alarmingly. A broken wheel! On Christmas Eve. And no one close by who could help them out. The vintner had elected to stay with his young and inexperienced horse, so it fell to Daniel to walk back into Épernay in the increasing snowfall to try to chase up a replacement wheel. It annoyed him to know that, in the time it took him to find a new wheel, he would have made it back to Hautvillers easily on foot. Two hours later, they were finally able to drive on.